


Snowbound in Bradford

by PR Zed (przed)



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-19
Updated: 2008-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-18 20:24:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/192936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/przed/pseuds/PR%20Zed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bodie goes undercover with the least threatening skinheads in all of England.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snowbound in Bradford

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to [](http://ancastar.livejournal.com/profile)[**ancastar**](http://ancastar.livejournal.com/) and [](http://callistosh65.livejournal.com/profile)[**callistosh65**](http://callistosh65.livejournal.com/) for betas above and beyond the call of duty.

_Oh, the weather outside is frightful  
But the fire is so delightful  
And since we've no place to go,  
Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow_

Fucking Yanks and their fucking Christmas songs, Ray Doyle thought as he snapped off the radio. The Beeb ought to fucking outlaw 'em all. He turned on his heel, barely suppressing a shiver. If it was fucking awful outside, it wasn't much better inside. No heat in this bloody hovel except for a single electric fire, and it was upstairs where Lucas was having a kip. Doyle had already threatened to burn furniture if the temperature dropped much further. It might burn this horrid shack down around them, but that could only improve the neighbourhood.

"I was listening to that, you know." Jax didn't turn away from the window he was looking out of. "Nice bit of holiday cheer never did anyone any harm."

"If you call that holiday cheer, you need your 'ead examined."

"If you ask me, _you_ need a bit of cheering up."

"Yeah? Well no one fucking asked you, did they?"

Jax said nothing more, but kept his attention on the ramshackle house across the road. The house they were meant to be keeping an eye on. The house that held two skinheads and Bodie. Bodie, who the Cow had sent undercover to determine if those very same skinheads had gone from talking about doing something nasty to actually doing it. Cowley reckoned they were going to do something very nasty indeed, sooner rather than later, and Cowley was seldom wrong.

Which left him and Jax here, in a Bradford council house, acting as Bodie's backup and hoping the stupid bastard didn't tip off the idiots he had infiltrated that he was a CI5 agent and not another yobbo nutter.

Doyle stood behind Jax, spitefully hoping Anson was even colder in the bugaboo parked down the road than he, Jax, and Lucas were in this unheated shell of a house, and desperately wishing Bodie would get on with it and find the evidence they needed to end this bloody op.

"He'll be all right, you know," Jax finally said.

Doyle didn't even dignify that with a response.

* * *

  


Bodie propped himself up on one elbow and took in the sight of a sated Ray Doyle. A lovely sight Doyle was, stretched out on his back like a satisfied moggy, eyes closed, a contented smile on his face. It was a wonder he wasn't purring.

Bodie reached out his free hand and placed it on Doyle's chest, enjoying the way Doyle's breathing sped up at the touch, even though he was trying hard not to show it. Enjoying the way Doyle's mouth parted in anticipation of further pleasure. Bodie couldn't quite believe it: two months they'd been fucking, and it was only getting better.

He let his hand trace a path down Doyle's chest, touching nipple and belly, halting just above his hipbone where he let his thumb trace a delicate circle, smiling as Doyle's neck arched and a small sigh escaped from his lips. He leaned over Doyle, letting his breath graze his partner's cheek, then taking his mouth in a kiss that was anything but subtle.

When they were both hard, both panting, both caught up in a tangle of wanting and needing, Bodie drew back to study Doyle again. His cheeks were flushed, his lips swollen, and, as Bodie watched, his eyes opened to reveal pupils blown wide with lust.

"Don't stop on my account," Doyle said, his voice as even as he could manage, though Bodie could hear the irritation lurking at the edges.

"Good things come to those who wait." Bodie smirked down at his partner and saw a greater irritation spark in Doyle's eyes.

"What if I don't feel like waiting?"

"What if you don't have a choice?" Bodie smirked some more and began a mental countdown. He barely made it to three before Doyle struck.

He grasped Bodie with hands and legs, and twisted his lithe body so Bodie found himself pinned on his back, hands on the pillow above him, thighs held tight in Doyle's own.

"Who doesn't have a choice now?" Doyle's smile was as predatory as Bodie's own.

"Who says I want one?"

Doyle didn't have an answer for that. Not one that involved words, anyway. He tightened his grip on Bodie's wrists, ground their cocks together and caught Bodie's mouth in a kiss that was sure to draw blood, a kiss that formed a growl in Bodie's throat.

This was why they worked so well together, on the street or in bed, fighting or fucking: each knew which way the other would break, each knew what the other needed. And right now, Bodie needed Doyle to take control.

Doyle kept hold of Bodie's wrists with one hand as he traced the other down Bodie's cheek, his throat, his flank. Bodie gasped as Doyle wrapped hand around both their cocks, his slightly roughened palm bringing Bodie pleasurably close to pain. Doyle bit at Bodie's lip as he began to stroke them both. Bodie tried to thrash in response, only to find himself restrained by Doyle's thighs, by the iron grip on his wrists.

His breathing grew faster and shallower, matching Doyle's increasing rhythm, until it was too much and, head flung back, he reached climax, bringing Doyle with him. They were both wrung dry and collapsed beside each other, limp and breathless with release.

"I must have done something right," Bodie said some time later, when he was capable of speaking.

"Why's that, then?" Doyle was back in satisfied moggy mode, lying on his side and stroking Bodie's arm.

"Father Christmas gave me my pressie early, didn't he?"

"How do you know you're not my pressie?"

"If I'm your pressie, you must have been a very good boy."

"Modest as always," Doyle said, giving him a swat.

"Just know my own worth," Bodie said, putting an arm around his partner and twining his legs with Doyle's. His eyes drifted closed, but as sleep threatened to take him, a thought occurred to him. "Doyle?"

"Yeah." Doyle sounded nearly as knackered as he felt.

"You got plans for the holidays?"

"I never make plans for the holidays. Cowley would only bollocks 'em up."

"What did you do last year?"

"Same as you. Waited in a bedsit in Clapham for a nonexistant IRA informer to turn up."

"I'd almost forgotten that." Though he hadn't really. He'd taken a certain pleasure in having Doyle all to himself those three days, even if they'd had to make do with cold chicken and chips for their Christmas dinner. "What about the year before last, then?"

"Went to my mom's up in Derby. My sister came over with her husband and her two kids. The kids are right terrors and her husband's a useless twat, but Sandra loves them all. We played charades, ate too much turkey, drank too much sherry and tried not to fight, same as always." Doyle shifted and rested his chin on Bodie's shoulder. "What did you do that year?"

"Was up in Hereford. A mate from the Regiment usually invites me up for the day. I get along with his missus and their kids seem to like me."

"Of course they do. You're just a big kid yourself."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Bodie said, giving thanks that Doyle hadn't asked why he didn't spend time with his family. Miserable bastards, the lot of them, and Bodie would rather face down the entire Baader-Meinhoff gang by himself than dredge up those memories.

"Take it however you like." Doyle closed his eyes and burrowed in closer to Bodie's side. Bodie thought he'd fallen asleep until he finally spoke. "Do you want to do a proper Christmas together this year?"

"I thought you said you didn't make plans." In spite of his protest, Bodie felt a bright bloom of warmth in the general vicinity of his heart.

"I'll make an exception for you, sunshine." Doyle opened his eyes and stared at him, wide-eyed in the dark of the bedroom.

"What if Cowley puts us on an op?"

"Then we'll both be on the op and we'll do Christmas when it's over." Doyle sat up and loomed over him. "Look, do you want to do this or not?"

"Yeah." Of course he did. Nothing he wanted more.

"That's all right." Doyle lay back down and put a warm arm over Bodie's chest. "I'll get a turkey in. You can bring the sherry."

"Scotch, if you please. Sherry's a foul drink."

"Scotch."

"And swede. You've got to have swede."

"There'll be swede."

"And pudding?"

"Go to sleep Bodie."

With visions of drumsticks and pudding and Christmas crackers dancing in his head, that's exactly what Bodie did.

* * *

It was Doyle's turn to man the window, binoculars and camera at the ready, though there was little enough to see. The nets were firmly closed on all the windows of the grotty little house across the way. Apart from the postman, there'd been no one near the house in days, and no one had left it. The only signs of life inside were the lights snapping on at dusk and snapping off again around midnight. Lucas and Anson's daily reports on what they were picking up from the bugs in the house were the only proof they had that their targets were inside at all. Their targets and Bodie.

Fucking Bodie, Doyle thought, irritated that it was Bodie in there on his own. No head for undercover work, Bodie. Eventually, he'd go all bull in a china shop and do something stupid. Something that would get him killed.

No, that wasn't fair. Bodie had trained for the job, same as he had. He wasn't as good as Doyle undercover, but he'd keep his head. He'd do the work, let the villains hang themselves, and move in for the kill. And then Doyle would be there to back him up. But Doyle still wished he wasn't by himself, with nothing but his wits and Anson's eavesdropping skills to keep him safe.

Fucking Cowley, he thought, dropping them in this the week before Christmas. Bastard probably worked for Father Christmas on the side, handing out the coal to the bad children.

* * *

"Fucking Cowley." Bodie gingerly touched the top of his head as he scowled into the mirror.

"It's not Cowley's fault you look more like a skinhead than I do." Fortunately for Doyle, he wasn't smiling. Instead, he was staring at Bodie with a frown of concentration, as if he were a difficult case to be solved. He reached out a hand and touched the stubble that was all that was left of Bodie's hair.

"I can't believe I let them shave my head."

"Oh come on, Bodie. You must have had worse haircuts in the army." Bodie glared at Doyle. "In Africa?" Doyle tried again.

"I've never had a haircut this bad before."

"It's all right sunshine. It'll all grow back." The ghost of a smirk touched the corner of Doyle's mouth. "The bovver boots are a nice touch."

"Don't remind me." Bodie looked down at the Doc Martens stuck on his feet. The bastard things weighed a ton, and they were tearing the skin off the back of his heel. "They're worse than army boots."

"You should be used to them, then." Doyle moved forward and put his arms around Bodie. Bodie nearly gasped as Doyle groped his arse. "I love the jeans. Good and tight. Very nice view."

"Naughty, Doyle," Bodie said, but he leaned into Doyle rather than pulling away from him. He wrapped his arms around Doyle, then raised one had and grabbed a handful of Doyle's curls. "I'm glad Cowley isn't sending you under with me. You wouldn't be Goldilocks without your curls."

"I'm _not_ Goldilocks, you pillock," Doyle said, but without any real heat. "And anyway, I don't think I'd make a believable skinhead. Do you?"

"This lot are _left-wing_ skinheads." Bodie held Doyle tightly and tried not to shiver as Doyle ran his palms up and down Bodie's back. "Right up your alley, I'd think," he said, gasping as Doyle's hand came to rest firmly on his arse.  
"You want to watch you don't start something you can't finish." Bodie turned his best stern look on Doyle. Which Doyle completely ignored.

"Who says I can't finish it?" Bloody bastard always did look a treat when he was being wicked. Bodie felt his cock go hard, even as his brain was warning him what a bad idea this was.

"We're supposed to be on the road to Bradford."

"We don't have to be there till this evening." Doyle ran his tongue across the edge of Bodie's jaw. "We've got plenty of time."

"It's not a good idea."

"You're right." Doyle bit lightly at his shoulder. "It's not a good idea. It's a great idea."

"You're a nutter."

"What's your point?" Doyle eased open Bodie's flies with one hand while the other dipped down the back of his jeans, and Bodie surrendered the fight. After all, he reasoned, there'd be no opportunity for a shag while he was undercover. He was owed.

He wrapped his arms around Doyle and took his wicked mouth in a pillaging kiss, even as Doyle launched a counterattack on Bodie's cock. At the end of a minute, it was hard to say who was panting more.

They pulled apart for a second and stared at each other. Doyle was irresistible with his swollen lips and his heaving chest. So Bodie didn't bother resisting, just backed Doyle across the room until the bed stopped him. One push, and Doyle fell back onto the bed. As Doyle scrambled up the mattress, Bodie launched himself at his partner, and then followed a scuffle as jeans, shirts, and pants, not to mention boots, were shed and tossed onto the floor.

Faced with a naked Ray Doyle, his cock as hard as Bodie's own, Bodie let the last of his lust slip the leash. He moved in and trapped Doyle beneath him on the bed.

"Who's the nutter now?" Doyle asked, an expression of exhilarated challenge on his face.

"You want to remember who you're dealing with," Bodie said, before completely losing himself in the feel of Doyle's skin against his. This coming together was a struggle, a fight, as enjoyable as any sparring match Bodie had ever had, and just as dangerous. Bodie knew this time he wasn't going to be happy with a wank, with simple release. This time he needed more.

And Doyle knew it. Bodie could see that in his eyes. Could see the permission in his expression, could feel it in the way that the tension in his muscles eased, ever so slightly.

"Do it," Doyle said, those two words stripping away what little control Bodie had.

He thrust against Doyle, again and again, bringing their cocks together, sending them both higher and higher, till Doyle was thrashing beneath him and he knew he couldn't hold out much longer.

With a growl, he turned Doyle over. Doyle, his need matching Bodie's, was right there on knees and elbows, waiting for him. He covered Doyle's back with his chest and waited, anticipating even as he stroked Doyle's cock, enjoying the muted gasps of pleasure he was pulling from his partner. Desire finally overcame patience, and he pushed home, spit and want easing the way.

He closed his eyes, afraid the sight of Doyle beneath him would send him over the edge before his time. But the feel of Doyle around him, the smell of him, the sound of him were more than enough. One more stroke was like a spark to gun powder, and Bodie was engulfed in a blaze of pleasure. Then Doyle was coming, and the blaze became an inferno, burning him to the ground.

Next thing he knew, Bodie was collapsed on his back beside a far too smug Ray Doyle.

"I am fantastic, aren't I?" Doyle said, and Bodie would have swatted him, except that he was right.

"Yeah," Bodie admitted with absolutely no resentment.

"You're not so bad yourself," Doyle said, nudging Bodie with one bare foot.

"Don't sell me short. I'm even more fantastic than you."

"Arrogant sod."

"That's why you love me."

"That, and your ability to fiddle an expense chit,' Doyle said with a laugh.

"I have never fiddled an expense chit," Bodie said with mock dignity. "I just know how to get around the Cow."

"Wish you'd used that knack to get out out of this assignment."

"Don't think I didn't try. But some things are beyond even my ability. And it's really too bad."

"Why's that?" Doyle propped himself up on his elbow and examined him closely.

"We're going to miss Christmas, aren't we?" Now that he'd faced it, it was ridiculous how much how disappointed he felt. Like a snotty-nosed kid who's just found out that Father Christmas isn't real.

"We haven't missed it yet." Doyle grinned.

"You going all optimistic on me, Doyle?"

"You do that to a person." Doyle leaned in and kissed Bodie, a simple kiss, unburdened by the passion they had just spent here in this room. A kiss that, even more than the sex, put a smile on Bodie's face, made him believe in Father Christmas, flying reindeer and the lot. "Now let's get cleaned up and get on the road, before we really are late."

"Wouldn't want that. We might have to explain to Anson what we were doing."

"I might do that anyway," Doyle said. "Would make him choke on one of his fucking cigars."

Bodie nearly choked himself, thinking of Anson's reaction to that revelation. Might almost be worth it to let Doyle let their secret slip. Almost.

* * *

Christmas Eve, and the snow had turned to sleet. The sidewalks were covered with the stuff and nearly everyone who passed the house, collar turned up against the miserable weather, slipped and slid their way down the street.

It was Doyle's shift, so he was at the window, with Jax sprawled behind him on the broken down chair they'd dragged up from the cellar.

He'd begun to think this was a duff assignment, that Bodie's skinhead mates were more interested in beer than bombs when there was a crackle and the R/T came alive with Anson's voice.

"Heads up, boys and girls. Our friendly neighbourhood skinheads are indulging in a bit of aggro."

"Have they rumbled Bodie?" Doyle asked, more worried about his partner than about getting evidence on the stupid toerags they were meant to be watching.

"No," said Anson, and there was the hint of laughter in his voice. "They're arguing with each other, the stupid bastards. Over who had the last lager in the fridge. Bodie's trying to calm them down."

"I'll be he is," Doyle said. "He probably took the last lager."

"I won't take that bet." There was a pause, then Anson said "Oh Christ" with more dread than amusement.

Before Doyle could ask what was happening, he saw a blue flash in the window of the house across the street, accompanied by a popping that sounded like nothing more than a dud squib on Bonfire Night. A sound that could only mean one thing.

Doyle grabbed his holster from the table where it sat, and ran for the door, with Jax not far behind him. As they ran across the road, there were more flashes, more pops, sounds of shouting and screaming, all growing louder as they approached the door.

With no thought of standard procedure or even his own safety, Doyle kicked the door in and burst into the house, gun cocked and ready to fire. What he found was not what he'd feared, nor quite what he'd expected.

Both of Bodie's skinhead mates were lying on the floor of a lounge that was identical to the one Doyle had just fled, save for the crumpled chip papers and lager bottles strewn on every available surface. Both of them were unconscious. One of them had what looked to be nothing more than a flesh wound on his arm. The other didn't have a mark on him. Bodie was leaning against the wall opposite holding a revolver that Doyle knew damn well wasn't his and looking both gobsmacked and pissed off at once.

"What happened?" Doyle asked.

"Stupid bastards." Bodie emptied the gun of bullets and threw it onto the floor. "Tweedledum there gets pissed off that Tweedledee's been drinking all the lager. So he goes and gets his gun. And Tweedledee's too stupid to realize you don't upset a man with a gun, so he starts making fun of him."

"Then Tweedledum starts firing." Doyle said.

"Yeah. Only he's a fucking awful shot. Three feet away and all he can manage is a graze."

"How'd they end up unconscious?" Anson asked impatinetly.

"Tweedledee couldn't handle the sight of his own blood and passed out."

"You're joking," Jax said.

"Wish I was. He's got to be the least threatening skinhead in all of England."

"And the other one?"

"He stopped firing when his mate hit the floor, so I moved in, grabbed the gun and knocked him out."

"Christ, Cowley's going to love these two." Doyle couldn't imagine the Cow was going to waste much time on either of them. If they were lucky, they could leave them to the local police and be safe at home for Christmas Day."

"They're not exactly criminal masterminds," Bodie said. "It's amazing they can tie their own shoelaces. I don't reckon they have any information CI5 would be interested in."

Doyle opened his mouth, set to make a joke at the expense of the Tweedle brothers, when his eye caught sight of something that shouldn't have been there.

"Bodie. You're bleeding." A dark wet stain was spreading across Bodie's left thigh.

"No, I'm not," Bodie said, then he looked down and blanched. "Christ. Yes, I am."

"How can you bloody well not notice you've been shot?" Doyle let anger cover up his fear, even as he was crossing the lounge and helping Bodie ease down to the floor.

"I don't know. I was distracted." Bodie looked down at his leg as if he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. "Anyway, I didn't think the bastard had it in him to hit anything. Let alone me."

Doyle applied pressure to the wound, concentrating on Bodie even as he heard Anson behind him calling an ambulance on the R/T, and Jax handcuffing their dangerous villains.

"It hurts like a bastard now." The bravado was draining out of Bodie's voice and as Doyle looked up he could see his partner's skin going a papery grey.

"Then stay still until the ambulance arrives."

"Easy for you to say." Bodie bit at his bottom lip.

"Easy for you to do." Doyle aimed a grin at his partner that he hoped looked more real than it felt. "You're a big bad army bloke. You wouldn't let a little thing like a bullet in your leg stop you, would you?"

"Nah," Bodie gasped out, getting into the spirit, as Doyle'd hoped he would. "Especially not when it's Christmas tomorrow. Have to make sure you don't try to give me any sherry."

"Only good scotch," Doyle agreed, a feeling of relief like none he'd experienced flooding him as he heard the ambulance on its way up the road.

"Exactly," Bodie said, before his eyes rolled up in the back of his head and he collapsed in an insensible heap.

* * *

Bodie fumbled his way toward consciousness with an ungodly throbbing in his leg. It felt as if someone had been digging into his thigh muscle with a dull butter knife. Which, given the state of the NHS, wasn't out of the question.

Eyes open, he found himself in the expected hospital room, the paint an even drearier grey than usual, the blanket over the cage protecting his leg even more threadbare than the one that had covered Doyle on their last visit to Guy's.

He blinked a few time to clear the sleep out of his eyes and looked around the room. Doyle was beside him, sitting in a cracked plastic chair, staring at him with an expression Bodie couldn't read.

"'Bout time you woke up." Doyle's voice was steady and nonchalant.

"Why's that then?" If Doyle was playing it cool, he could follow his lead. After all, he was the one who'd taught Doyle a thing or two about cool.

"Didn't want you to miss Christmas, did I?"

"Christmas." Then again, cool was overrated. He shifted and sat up, wincing as the movement pulled at the stitches in his leg. "It's still Christmas?"

"For a few hours more."

Bodie found himself grinning. Which wasn't entirely a logical response to his situation. After all, he wasn't just stuck in a hospital, he was stuck in a hospital in Bradford. And with a great bloody hole in his leg at that. But it was Christmas and Doyle was with him and ridiculously, that was all he needed to be happy.

"Good," Bodie said, feeling no more need to elaborate on how he felt.

"Good?" Doyle raised an eyebrow. "That all you have to say for yourself?"

"Yeah." Bodie wiggled back into the pillows. "It is, actually."

"You're a daft bugger."

"Lucky for you. Only a daft bugger would have you."

"I could say the same thing about you." Doyle's cool evaporated as Bodie watched, leaving in its place something that looked suspiciously like love. Not that Bodie would ever have the bad manners to point it out. Not when he reckoned he felt the same way himself.

"And I'd say that makes me a lucky man." As Bodie watched, the last remnants of Doyle's cool façade blew away, like a morning mist swept away by a stiff breeze.

A quick look behind him--he probably didn't want one of the nursing sisters looking in on them any more than Bodie did--and then Doyle leaned forward and touched his lips to Bodie's. It wasn't like other kisses they'd shared. There was less hunger behind it, less frantic need. But there was a sense that this was more than a passing fancy for either of them, more than mere lust. Though Bodie was never one to underrate lust.

"What are you smiling for?" Doyle asked, his eyes slitting with suspicion.

"Because I'm happy.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Good," Doyle said firmly. "Because so am I."

"Good," said Bodie.

* * *

Years later, when they'd had many Christmases together, yet not nearly enough, and Doyle was feeling like the sentimental old duffer he was, he asked Bodie which Christmas meant most to him.

There were any number he could have picked. The first one they'd shared with Doyle's family, the one that ended with Bodie throwing a punch at Sandra's useless husband and bonding with Doyle's mum. Or the one when they'd rented a cottage up in the Scottish highlands in memory of the Cow. Or last year, when they'd done something they'd never have thought possible back in the day, and tied the knot formally and legally. But Bodie hadn't picked any of those.

"That one in Bradford," Bodie said. "You know, when I was laid up for a bit."

"When you had a bullet in you, you mean," Doyle said in disbelief. "And my arse kept falling asleep from sitting on that wretched chair. You really are a madman, you know."

"I'm not mad," Bodie said, his Scouse accent thickening, as it so often did when Doyle had him on the defensive. "But it was our first Christmas together, like."

A fondness for the great daft git who was his partner welled up in Doyle's chest. "If the junior agents ever find out how soft you are, you'll never terrify them again."

"Luckily, you're the only one who knows my secret."

"And I'll never tell," Doyle said, even as he leaned over and squeezed Bodie's hand.

Bodie never asked what Doyle's favourite Christmas was, but if he had, Doyle would have told him. It was all of them, any fucking one where the two of them were together.


End file.
